“Has she left her child with me?” The dreadful thought sent a burning wave through Eleanor’s body. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back—she must.”
Eleanor had returned from work to find a brief note on the table. Her relationship with her daughter, Emily, had always been strained, but she never imagined the girl would run away like this. She read the note again and again, memorising every word, yet still feeling she’d missed something vital—misunderstood some hidden plea.
Sleep eluded Eleanor that night. The pillow felt too hard, the blanket too heavy, the air too stifling. One moment she wept; the next, she argued with Emily in her mind, replaying their quarrels, their rare moments of happiness.
Exhausted, she finally rose, sat at the table, and switched on the lamp. The crumpled note lay atop her work papers, worn from constant handling.
For the hundredth time, Eleanor read it carefully. No, she hadn’t misunderstood. She could almost hear Emily’s furious, accusing voice.
*”I’m tired of your control… You’re too strict… I want to live my own life. I’m an adult. You’d never have let me go, so I’m leaving while you’re out. I’m fine. I’m not alone. Don’t look for me. I won’t come back…”*
No greeting, no signature. Eleanor clutched the paper. “And what about me?” she whispered, as if Emily could hear. “What if something happens to me? You’ve left me no way to reach you. Do you even care what becomes of me?”
Perhaps Emily had her reasons. But Eleanor, as her mother, had only wanted her to finish her education, find a good job—not let fleeting passion derail her future. Were there truly mothers who let their children do as they pleased?
She herself had married young, fresh from university. She’d thought love would conquer all—until reality struck: cramped dormitory rooms, scarce money, exhaustion. When Emily was born, things grew unbearable. Her husband, just as young and unprepared, became a stranger. Perhaps her own mother had been right—perhaps she should have ended the pregnancy. But Eleanor had been foolish, believing love alone would suffice.
They divorced within months. Eleanor took a leave from her studies, returning to her parents. Surprisingly, her mother adored Emily despite once urging an abortion. She even cared for the child while Eleanor finished her degree, spoiling the girl rotten.
While her parents lived, Eleanor knew no hardship. Her mother was there, the child supervised. After graduation, she taught English for two years before becoming a translator.
But love eluded her. Her mother urged her to choose an established man, yet Eleanor met only married ones seeking affairs or divorcés with nothing left to offer. She feared entanglements.
When her parents died, she and Emily were left alone. Eleanor poured everything into her daughter—only to realise Emily didn’t want it. Spoiled by her grandmother, Emily saw her mother as stifling. She dreamed of freedom, not books or careers. And now she was gone.
“I’ll wait,” Eleanor murmured. “What else can I do? You’ll return one day. I’m your mother—I’ll always love you, always forgive. Just stay safe…” With a sigh, she turned off the lamp and lay down. It took an hour of tossing before sleep claimed her—restless, uneasy.
For months, she jumped at every phone call, every knock. She took extra translation work, labouring late into the night. Exhaustion left no room for self-pity. She told herself Emily was fine.
Then, after eighteen months, a knock interrupted her work. Reluctantly, she set aside her glasses, rubbed her tired eyes. The knock came again.
She opened the door. There stood Emily—thinner, worn, but alive. Eleanor gasped, rushing forward.
“Emily! You’re back—I’ve waited so long!”
But Emily’s cold stare stopped her. Only then did Eleanor notice the child in her arms.
“Is this yours? Let me—” She took the baby. “A girl?” Joy flickered. “I’ll put her down; you get settled.”
She carried the sleeping child to the sofa, marvelling at her lashes, her rosebud lips. Then the front door slammed.
Emily was gone.
Only a bulging bag remained. Eleanor flung open the door, shouting down the stairwell: “Emily!” Silence. She raced to the window—no car, no Emily.
“Emily…”
She returned to the child. In the bag, she found baby clothes, a half-used tub of formula, a bottle. And documents.
The truth struck like a blow: Emily had abandoned her daughter.
Irene. Irene Margaret Thompson. No wedding ring meant no marriage—Emily had given the child her own surname. The father’s middle name? Or a hasty invention?
Another note—no greeting, no goodbye. *”Please, just keep her a little while.”*
Eleanor’s hands trembled as she prepared a bottle. The translations lay forgotten.
A new life began. She worked entirely from home, exhausting herself but finding purpose in Irene. At three, the girl started nursery, registered under Eleanor’s care. She told the headmistress Irene’s mother was a traveling translator.
Years passed. Quiet, clever Irene became Eleanor’s world. Yet the girl refused to call her “Grandma.”
“I’m Val,” Eleanor finally said. “Just Val.”
Emily never returned, never wrote. When school approached, Eleanor feared officials might question their arrangement. She confessed everything to the headmaster—her former colleague—who smoothed the way.
She adored Irene, yet dreaded Emily’s return. She wasn’t overly indulgent, but gave the girl all she needed. At parent evenings, she glowed with pride.
Irene was thoughtful beyond her years. Eleanor often wondered: had Emily been like this? No—Emily had hated books, quit piano lessons, cared only for fun.
One spring afternoon, Eleanor and Irene walked home slowly, basking in the sun. At their door, Eleanor fumbled for her keys.
“Mum.”
She turned sharply, dropping them. Emily stood there—glamorous, blonde, expensively dressed. The scent of fine perfume hung in the air. Joy twisted into dread: she’d come for Irene.
The girl picked up the keys, handing them to Eleanor, who noticed Emily’s piercing stare. Though Irene eyed the stranger curiously, she pressed close to Eleanor.
“You’ve come back. And I know why,” Eleanor said stiffly, ushering Irene inside.
Inside, Emily’s polished demeanour cracked. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“You look well—settled.”
“I live in Spain. Married. Did you think I’d forget—” Their eyes fell on Irene.
“Go change,” Eleanor told the girl.
“Irene, I’m your mother,” Emily interjected, stepping forward. The child shrank behind Eleanor, then fled.
“Give her time!” Eleanor snapped.
“You always know best, don’t you?” Emily laughed bitterly.
“Is that why you left her with me?”
“I’ve come to take her. We’ll leave as soon as the paperwork’s done.”
The days that followed were tense, old wounds reopened. But Eleanor swallowed her pain—for Irene’s sake, she’d make peace.
Then, as departure neared, Irene asked, “Is Val coming too?”
Emily stiffened. “No, she’ll stay here. You’ll visit when you’re older.”
“Then I won’t go.”
Even Eleanor couldn’t persuade her. Secretly, she waited for Emily to invite her along—she’d have gone in a heartbeat. But the offer never came.
Emily left alone after a final, vicious argument, accusing Eleanor of turning Irene against her. She threatened legal action, then vanished.
Eight years later, she returned—widowed, penniless, her husband’s family having cast her out. Irene, now older, welcomed her warily. They lived together briefly until Emily remarried and moved on. Irene stayed with Eleanor, visiting her mother occasionally.
Every family has its troubles, its secrets. When mothers and daughters fail to understand each other, everyone suffers.
